


Lush Lockdown

by harryhanlon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Blood Drinking, Bobby Singer's Panic Room, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21882982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harryhanlon/pseuds/harryhanlon
Summary: He deserved to be strapped down, held back from the mistakes he continued to make.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Lush Lockdown

**Author's Note:**

> i DON'T wanna talk about this. you could listen to hozier's sedated for a little flair but honestly do you

He had promised himself he would never get here. This wasn't supposed to be him. He was smart and he'd seen the signs and dedicated himself to not being exactly this.

Still here he was, locked down in the panic room, feeling nothing but the ache of his veins.

It had always been a possibility, sure. He'd known since he was a teenager cautiously giddy at his first beer with dinner. He'd been scared of it since his first black out prom weekend.

Sam decided, after struggling to fill the too large gaps in his memory through a splitting headache, he'd cut it out right there. Nip this in the bud before it blossomed into a Problem. He had enough of those already. 3 months, 1 acceptance letter, and a shattered family later he keeps his promise.

The walls of the panic room were rough in a way he hadn't considered at their first introduction. Iron chipped so irregularly grated at his eyes as he involuntarily imagined that same force tearing at his raw skin. He shook with an edge of violence, pretending he could shake off the pain like a dog fresh from rain. His success just splashed his discomfort back against the grain of his cell. It stung again, the space closing in and becoming an extension of him. Sam tried to strengthen his marrow, reinforce his joints, steel his spine to stop shaking. It would stop hurting if he could just stop shaking.

It was easy once he got to school. He couldn't afford to fuck up and prove Dad right. His days were full with studying and making new connections and having regular problems with normal people. By nighttime he was so exhausted from creating this new person, his near dreamless 6 hours came easily.

He really just didn't have time to be as broken as he felt. Until Christmas Break.

Everyone left and loneliness filled the empty hallways to and from his room. Lucky Sam wouldn't have anyone pressing why he couldn't remember most of that month. Winter can be hard for everyone. Freshman year is a blur anyway. Santa's not gonna give him coal for the empty bottles under his bed and the library probably won't even notice the tear stains on the unread books he returns.

He doesn't call Dean. Even blurry Sam refuses to remind the only person he cares about disappointing how helpless he is. That he literally can't keep it together when his life depends on it.

Sam had given up on yelling before he even started. His heart wasn't in it. Even his vocal cords knew he wasn't worth saving and it was way past time for mercy.

He ignored the shadows dancing at the edges of his vision. His focus shrank to the blank space straight ahead. The texture gave the shadows bite. His eyelids fluttered in invitation. They scratched at his ears into his skull digging for purchase. He gave up.

Sam became a master of compartmentalization. He let his perfect student take over during the day. Or the whole week. For as long as his dose would let him. And when the crash came (he learned quickly the crash always came) the broken man took the shattered pieces and made them manageable. It was still compartmentalization if they bled into each other right? If it was one big full box locked away and buried?

He came to and felt exposed. His arms strained as he panicked before he could even open his eyes. He fought and struggled and choked on his fear and he was drowning again just like in his nightmares and he couldn't save himself because he's so fucking weak.

Suddenly he's looking into his own younger face and struggling against his own hands. There's no joy in the plastered on smile.

“You promised.”

He couldn't manage a single word in defense.

“You're worse than Dad ever thought you'd be. You could have just been a disappointment. Instead you're just like him.”

Sam closed his eyes and wished, not for the first time, that it would all just end.

Helping Brady worked for a while. It helped to be held accountable by someone else that needed him to be okay. But eventually even he got better. Brady was non-perishable, dry, shelf-stable to Sam's spoiled milk.

For months he'd live his double life, the perfect man for his friends and broken beyond repair everywhere else.

Abruptly he was back in that awful cell, twitching back into his own too tight skin. He swayed on the thin mattress in unconscious attempts to loosen the restraints or at least anchor himself in one spot. The walls continued to taunt him as if he hadn't already spread himself across every inch. Imagined footsteps creaked above him, his brother and father figure living their normal lives while he's held captive below, undeserving of their freedom.

The first taste of blood hadn't even been sweet like the hundreds after. Grief convinced him the taste would be a deal breaker in the long term. Ruby had had to push her broken skin right up to his mouth, harder than any bottle had ever met his lips. The red smeared against his mouth until the first drop hit his tongue and he felt a surge of strength. So what if it stung his tongue and burned all the way down. He had the confidence of pure power behind him.

He couldn't come down if it was running through his veins, right?

He shook against the restraints again, imagining he could cast the poison from his blood if he tried hard enough. Deep down he knew it wasn't just something he could expel. The poison was in him, in his cells, he'd never escape it.

Sam called halfheartedly for his brother, knowing he wasn't worth even listening out for. He wasn't worth saving even if he hadn't been twice past too far gone. He'd be content to rot here if it made Dean's life easier. One less fuck up little brother to drag him down.

He shut his eyes, wishing he could scratch open apologetic wounds. Wishing he could wear his sorries as scars. Wishing he could spill his own blood in atonement.

He lay back, waiting for more of his deserved punishment.

Sam Winchester was a lost cause, buried in disappointments.


End file.
